I feel a rush of anticipation as I jog back to the car. From there, I find a place to fill up with gas. I duck into their restroom to change into work clothes. Looking in the cracked, dull mirror, I fluff my hair and pat on some powder to hide the fact that my cheeks are flushed.
Then I pay for the gas with cash, climb into my car, and head back to work. For the first time in years, I long for a cigarette, just to calm my nerves, but I ignore the craving.
How I would love to make a swing by the motel to make certain that stupid kid sees the package. But I restrain myself. No reason to take any unnecessary chances.
I only wish I could be a fly on the wall when Bentz opens the envelope. Oh, dear God, his expression will be priceless!
CHAPTER 35
Bentz was on the road when he got the call. Caller ID flashed the number and name of the So-Cal Inn. “Bentz.”
“Hi, this is Rebecca, the manager of the So-Cal. You asked me to call you if anything odd happened?”
Bentz’s free hand gripped the wheel. “Yeah.”
“We found a package with your name on it at the front door.”
“A package?” he repeated.
“Well, an envelope. You know one of those manila things. Around eight by eleven. I thought you might have dropped it when you left.”
“No.” He thought about the last manila envelope he’d received with pictures of Jennifer and a marred death certificate. He didn’t doubt for a second that whatever was in this one, too, had come from the same source. “Hold on to it. Don’t open it and I’ll be right there. Ten minutes, fifteen tops.” He searched for an exit, switched lanes, and sped to the next off-ramp, barely slowing as he left the freeway until he hit the red light at the cross street.
Another set of pictures? More documents? Oh, Jesus…please let this be about Jennifer, not Olivia.
His guts were grinding, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel.
What now? Just what the hell now?
As soon as it turned green, he made a quick left turn under the freeway, swinging around to the southbound entrance of the 405. The light was with him and he gunned it.
He knew he hadn’t dropped an envelope or anything else at the motel.
So someone had left him a surprise, this time without mailing it. “Son of a bitch.”
Whoever was behind all this madness was getting bolder.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that this time the packet had something to do with Olivia. A ransom request? Or worse? His heart nosedived and he wasn’t able to drive fast enough to eat up the miles to the Culver City exit. Time seemed to stand still and dread burned a hole in his stomach but ten minutes after taking the call, he pulled into the familiar, pockmarked parking lot, cut the engine, and strode into the office.
Rebecca was waiting.
The envelope in question sat on the registration desk. Across the yellowish face was his name written in the same block letters that had addressed the envelope containing Jennifer’s death certificate and pictures.
“I found it when I walked in. I was out checking a room where the key wasn’t working and Tony was at the desk. He didn’t see who left it.”
Warily Bentz handled the thin package. She offered him a letter opener and he sliced the seal carefully. Rebecca watched as he tipped out the single sheet of paper within.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her mouth as a picture of Olivia slid onto the desk’s Formica surface.
Bentz’s knees nearly gave way. His stomach turned over. He stared at the shot of Olivia, his beautiful Olivia, who eyed the camera dead-on with an expression of stark, cold fear. Pale as death, she was looking through bars, as if she were in some old western jail. Her hair was mussed; her eyes round and bloodshot, a red patch evident over her mouth where it seemed a gag had been taped. All of the life, the fire of her personality, had disappeared. Instead her expression was of pure terror.
“Goddamn it!” he said, his jaw tight, every muscle in his body clenched. If he ever found the psycho who did this, Bentz would personally tear him limb from limb.
But she’s alive, he reminded himself. That’s something!
Insides twisted, he checked the envelope further, expecting a letter or note, but there was nothing more. Just the devastating photograph.
You did this, Bentz. She’s been captured, maybe tortured, and held in this jail because of you and your insatiable need, your damned obsession to chase down your ex-wife.
Guilt and fear ripped through him.
“What…what is this?” Rebecca asked.
“This,” he said, his voice nearly cracking, “is my wife.”
“Oh, God…I’m so sorry.” She licked her lips nervously as she continued to stare in horror at the picture. “Where is she? What is happening to her? This could be a joke, right? A sick one, but a joke?” When she met his gaze, she knew the truth. “Oh, mother of God.” She blinked against a spate of tears.
“Is Tony around?” Bentz asked.
“Oh…yeah…Sorry.” She turned her head and yelled over her shoulder for her son. “Tony!”
“Do you know if Tony got a look at the person who left this?” he asked, motioning to the envelope.
“I don’t think so.” She cleared her throat and took a step closer to the door separating the lobby from the business office and staff quarters. “Tony!” she called again, more sharply. “He’s got a cold, that’s why he’s not in school.”
Yeah, right.
A few seconds later, Tony appeared plugged into an MP3 player, grooving out to music loud enough that Bentz heard the sharp cadence of a rap tune. Hands in his pockets, the kid shuffled into the office from the back as Bentz slid the picture into its heavy envelope. To the boy’s credit he did sniffle and snort a bit as if his nose was threatening to drip. A cold? Or maybe the results from snorting some drug? Coke? Meth? At the moment Bentz didn’t care.
Rebecca pulled one of the earbuds from her son’s ear. “Mr. Bentz wants to know if you saw anyone leave this?”
“Uh-uh.” Tony was looking down at his feet.
“You sure?” Bentz asked.
The kid shrugged. “Nah, I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure,” Bentz said, urging him to think of something, anything that would help him save his wife.
“I, uh, I heard something,” Tony said, clearing his throat. “You know, like a slap. Maybe when she dropped it?” He didn’t sound certain.
“She?” Bentz asked.
“Or him.” Tony frowned, concentrated, then acted as if he were afraid to give the wrong answer. “I dunno.”
“But you saw someone?”
“Not really, but there was a runner going by. You know, jogging.”
“And you thought it was a woman?” Bentz’s heart was beating double-time. He wanted to shake the words from the kid’s body. A jogger had been caught on the webcam at Santa Monica Pier the night Bentz had jumped into the water after Jennifer, and he thought he’d seen a runner on the street near Lorraine Newell’s house on the night she was killed. And now?
“Look she, he, was wearing sweats and a cap. I really couldn’t tell. Can I go now?”
“No,” Bentz said. Sweats and a cap on a warm morning…had to be a disguise. Had to. Bentz knew he was grasping at straws but he’d take anything, the tiniest shred of a clue that might lead to his wife. It was all he could do to appear calm, keep his voice even when he was screaming inside. “Look, Tony, I think I might want you to go to the police station and talk with a police artist.”